Chapter 8 #2
A few minutes later, she heard the shuffle of hastened snowshoes. The prince slowed his stride as he caught up, matching her pace.
“I must say, I’ve never heard someone use my title with such…vitriol.”
Cerise cast him a sideways glance, eyebrow raised.
“I quite like it.”
She huffed, muffling a surprised laugh. “And I must say, you’re much stranger than I expected you to be.”
“Is that a good or bad thing?”
“Undecided.”
The prince laughed again, a low, pleasant sound like a contented cat’s purr.
When the sun hid behind the Merathel Mountains, the first stars shining through the deep purple of the eastern sky, they set up camp.
Assuming the absorber would melt the snow beneath their tent—and not wanting to wake on a sunken bed of water—the prince offered to dig out a trench to set their tent in.
Cerise hacked out some uncursed wood and built a fire, then stretched her leg beside the flames while roasting the slim, skinned fox and boiling its bones.
Several times, Cerise offered to assist him.
Each time, he declined. So she relaxed, rubbing the aches in her knee, and snuck glances at the thoughtful prince.
Once the trench was dug, he pitched the tent, placing the wool and hide shelter Cerise and Eirwen slept in while Cerise built their cabin, in the pit.
Not once did the tent collapse on him while he erected it, as Cerise had expected.
He ducked his large form inside, and several minutes later, the absorber glowed from the interior, pulling in traces of cold. When he stepped back out into the snow he stretched, emphasizing the width of his chest and muscular arms.
Twice now, she’d been surprised by his consideration and efficiency.
From all she knew of the royal family, she never expected one of them to put others’ needs before their own.
Never thought they’d get their hands dirty in icy soil and snow, cradling cursed plants, and pitching tents. How did he come to learn such things?
The prince roved his hands through his thick golden-brown hair, waves shaking loose over his shoulders as he stalked toward the fire. “You’re staring.”
“No, I’m watching to ensure you don’t fuck up.” Cerise snapped her head away, hiding the rising blush in her cheeks. Yet she still caught the prince’s pleased grin.
He piled snow into their mugs and placed them beside the fire, letting it melt, then leaned back to gaze at the sky on the rare clear night.
“That’s the Hammer of Merathel,” he said, pointing upward.
Cerise followed the trace of his fingers through the air.
They pointed to a diagonal line of four stars, with a dozen more at the top in a semi-rectangular shape.
For as much time as she spent sleeping beneath the sky, back when there were more seasons than the varying intensities of winter, she never cared much for the heavens.
Where the Celestials hid in their divine plane, letting the mortals fight their war, granting boons as they deemed appropriate. It sickened her.
“And there, the Crown of Sylvenel.”
His gaze and hand shifted, pointing toward another cluster of stars. She stared at it, trying to figure out how it was supposed to be a crown. When she couldn’t make out the shape, she instead turned her focus to the star-gazing prince, wondering how he came to know the heavens so well.
The flames glowed deep gold in his hair, waves cascading over his neck, just touching his back. They flickered in his eyes, too, all the bright shades of lost dawns.
She cleared her throat and looked at the cooking fox. Cerise slit open the meat with a knife, checking if it was cooked through. Then she carved pieces of it, handing them to the prince.
He thanked her, and though he grimaced while he chewed, he didn’t comment on the taste. The usually tough and gamey meat was even drier than normal, and Cerise’s jaws tired from trying to tenderize it.
Cerise massaged her leg while eating, needing something else to focus on besides the disappointing, inadequate dinner.
“Would you like me to do that?” the prince asked, nodding toward her knee.
“No.”
“Are you certain? I imagine doing it yourself isn’t as satisfying. And I’d be glad to offer you the relief.”
A teasing lilt lifted the prince’s voice and Cerise glared at him.
“I am certain.”
“A shame,” the prince sighed. “I suppose I’ll simply have to dream about it, then.”
“Dream about what?”
“Touching you.”
A flirtatious smirk curled the corners of his lips as his eyes flicked to her mouth. Then he rolled his lips, moistening them, powerful hands shredding the last piece of his fox.
She’d seen those fingers work in deliberate, delicate, and deadly ways. She could almost feel their strong warmth pressing into her tender, aching body already, soothing the deepest pains and relieving long-forgotten wants.
A terrible, hot yearning spread through veins.
And in that rising tide, the burn of anger.
No one ever flirted with her so boldly. She was not a great beauty, nor a kind spirit.
The prince was lying to her. But why he’d do that, except to have another sexual encounter to add to his list, she didn’t know.
“Do these desperate attempts at seduction truly work on all your ladies in Tyrnoraen?”
The prince winced, brow pinching. “All ‘my’ ladies?”
“Yes, prince. Your reputation precedes you. The handsome younger brother to King Ulrich who never found purpose outside of chasing skirts, though none of the ladies loved him enough to stay. Or perhaps he didn’t love himself enough to convince anyone else he was worthy of their affection.”
“I didn’t realize I was such a cad,” he said, shoulders stiffening.
“Yes. Well.” The deepening, pained knot between his brows carved a nauseating, bitter guilt in Cerise’s stomach. “I refuse to be another one of your conquests. So get that out of your head right now.”
“I doubt anyone could diminish you to something as simple as a conquest.” The prince thought for a moment, then added in a whisper, “If anything, you’d be my conqueror.”
She scoffed and pushed herself to her feet with Beloved and let her hair curtain half her face. “It’s getting dark. I’m going to bed.”
“I suppose that means I am as well. I’m certainly not staying out here by myself.”
Cerise ignored him, letting him douse the flames, pack the site, and clean the bones. She strode to the tent, letting the brisk night air extinguish the fire that sparked within her.
She paused at the tent flaps. The bastard even created a ramp of compacted snow leading down to the entrance, making it easier for her to climb down.
Thanks to the absorber, the tent was warm. Cerise laid Beloved down in the center, marking their sides. She lay on her back, listening to the prince work and walk outside, the aches from the day still throbbing in her leg. Without Eirwen to pull out the cold, it remained stiff and sore.
The prince entered the tent, and his eyebrows arched briefly at the weapon in the center.
“Is there a problem, prince?”
He shrugged off his outermost layer, once again revealing the broadness of his body. He placed the pelt on the ground and laid on top of it, shifting until he was comfortable, with one muscular leg raised and a thick arm under his head.
He closed his eyes and said, “Not at all.”